Caravaggio
by Ranuccio
Summary: A flight deep into the mind of Michelangelo da Caravaggio and his passionate lusts for his own property. -Rated for M/M Slash, some Violence and Sexuality-
1. Chapter 1

Ranuccio... His voice whispers to me from beyond the grave. His dark eyes glisten and watch me from the portraits I crafted out of his figure. I run my finger-tips along the canvasses, feeling the lumps and raised edges where I tried to convey the power and rawness of the sinewy muscles along his arms. My fingers trace up to his neck and my thumb lingers on his throat, gently smoothing the soft, dried paint. I stare into his eyes, so intent, so focused. My gaze falls to his lips where I find myself transfixed for a few moments.

I turn to the portrait of Lena behind me. She, wrapped in clothes and quilts spread delicately across a cot, looked so peaceful in death. Men and women around her lean over for comfort and mourning, misery etched in the wrinkles imbedded around their eyes.

I had not made Ranuccio a portrait after his death. No... He would not have enjoyed being shuffled around like a sack of grain, as if he were nothing more than an object...

But wasn't he?

I turn away from my paintings and leave the room quietly.

...

"Michelangelo?"

I turned to the sound of my name and saw Ranuccio standing at the door, his hand pressing into the doorframe above his head.

I looked him up and down slowly, admiring his masculinity, before realizing what I had done.

"Yes?" I asked.

His eyes smiled before his lips followed suit. He looked down as if embarressed.

"Well... I..." He picked at a fragment of wood sticking out of the frame, avoiding my eyes. "Are you hungry?" He asked at last, looking up at me.

"No." I glanced at the table by my bed where Jerusaleme had placed my bowl of soup and bread. "No, Jerusaleme fed me earlier. Why?"

Ranuccio blushed and grinned, then stopped grinning and turned away. "Oh, I was just curious, is all." He shrugged and left the room.

I stared after him for a moment before walking over to my soup and soaking up the last of the cold bits with my crust of bread. I stared at the grayish slop clinging to the bread, and then I ate it.

...

"Just because he seems to like you, doesn't mean you should-"

"What? Make him love me?"

"No! Well, yes. I mean, if you don't feel that way about him-"

"I'm in love with his money," Lena snarled. "That's what you want to hear, isn't it? It's all money and clothes with me! There's nothing else I care about, except you, right?"

Ranuccio stared at her with narrow eyes, his hands clinched in fists at his sides. I could see him wrestling in his mind with the things he wanted to say and do, but he at last turned his back on her.

"It's not right of you to take advantage of him," he said at last.

Lena sighed. "Jealous bastard," she hissed under her breath before going into the kitchen for something to drink.

Ranuccio stood still as a statue, staring at a painting of musicians I had made, but I could see his eyes were unfocused, seeing things only the mind can put into pictures.

I waited for a few more minutes before coming into the room as if I had heard nothing.

...

At night time turns into a river. It moves steadily, yet never seems to go anywhere.

I lay on my back staring up at the black nothingness above me where the ceiling must be. My mind is full of thoughts yet empty of any real meaning. I think about when I first laid eyes on Ranuccio. Seeing him at the bar, gambling away his money for a chance at winning double. The ashes falling from his cigarette, flickering away into dust in his lap without him noticing. So careless and rash. I smile as I think of his eyes, when they first caught me staring at him.

Twas not fear that rippled behind his smoke-clouded eyes, no. It was shyness. He did not realize who I was, not that I was anyone, but still; He was shy and possibly embarressed to see me watching him.

As I lay in the cool quiet, life begins to stir outside my window as dawn approaches. Smears of dark violet and blue begin to marr the skies in the East.

Men with simple goals can only be pleased by simple things. Such was Ranuccio. Simple with his goal of power and fame. Pleased simply by the weight of gold in one's hand.

How sweet innocence can be.

The morning dew lingers on the grass long after the sun has given birth to a new day. A chill in the air allows the insects to slumber a bit longer, while the birds begin to twitter and flap among the trees and rooftops.

Soon Jerusaleme comes in with my breakfast. I hear him coming and close my eyes, pretending to be asleep until he places my food on the table and leaves the room.

I open my eyes again as I hear a bird scuttling along the window pane. I watch it with my eyes for a moment. It picks at its feathers and scratches its head, content with its utterly pointless life.

Suddenly my body jerks and my lungs spasm, and I am forced to sit up as a fit of coughing over-takes me. The bird flees with a scattering of feathers. Jerusaleme rushes in with a cup of water, worry etched into the deep wrinkles in his forehead.

I drink and he pats my face with a rag.

I sit back on the bed and sigh, while he rushes over to the table and grabs my food. He holds it out to me eagarly, but I wave it away, suddenly too tired to eat.

...

Once I was painting a portrait of Lena, who was dressed in red and white, leaning sensually along the length of a chair.

I slew the canvass with thick ribbons of black and crimson, rubbing and smudging the textures with the side of my thumb. Lena's body began to take shape before my eyes. I glanced over at her, where she lay in perfect stillness, her velvety eyes closed.

I turned my eyes a bit further to where Ranuccio was. He sat in the floor, one leg stretched out before him while the other was tucked up to his chest. His arms hung loosely from his shoulders, draped into his lap. His fingertips played with his crotch through his trousers. A cigarette hung from his lips, white smoke drifting sleepily from the tip.

I stared at his hands, marvelled at his expression. His almost indifference towards his own pleasure. I imagined his rough hands feeling my crotch, and my mouth turned dry.

He felt me watching him and looked up.

I quickly turned away with a flick of my paintbrush.

A few moments later, Ranuccio left the room, and Lena began to snore.

I tried to continue to paint, but she was quite distracting. I went to her and touched her shoulder, and her eyes fluttered open. She smiled, and, throwing her arms around my neck, she pulled me down and kissed me.

...

Women and children, whores and scoundrels: All of these made up the scenes of which I conveyed onto canvass.

A slut of a woman with a child born out of wedlock, and a haggard young man desperate for food, becomes an innocent baby squirming in the arms of its lonely mother, reaching towards a soldier of war.

An elderly woman found lost in the streets, becomes a woman who witnessed Christ's death and entombment.

A fierce and reckless fighter, a man who would do anything for money, becomes the ever-faithful John the Baptist.

With Lena around, inspiration flooded over me, threatening to drown me. As soon as I was satisfied with one painting, I would rearrange the models into a different pose and start a new one.

With Ranuccio around, all I wanted to do was paint him. Though, I was much too shy to do so. Therefore, I paced, distracted, unable to paint properly. My mind's eye fixed on his bare-chested body, nearly naked as John the Baptist.

When the two of them were together, my thoughts evened out so that I could function well-enough to paint, and, essentially, feed myself.

...

I see the shadows cross the wall before I hear the footsteps.

Jerusaleme comes in the room, the whistle hanging from his neck on a leather string. He carrys a bucket and a bar of soap. An old woman comes in behind him with an armful of towels. Yet another person comes in with a lantern, which he places on the table.

The light hurts my eyes, so I roll over on the bed and face the wall.

Jerusaleme coaxes me up with his gentleness and calm manner, and I wordlessly oblige him by removing my shirt.

...


	2. Chapter 2

I sent Lena with Jerusaleme to go buy some cigarettes and wine. I told them to take their time, that I had no ideas for paintings at the moment.

Lena kissed me on the cheek and whispered goodbye, and Jerusaleme stared at me with his wrinkled brow until I shooed him away.

Ranuccio... The silly bastard. He didn't suspect a thing.

He stood cleaning the grit from under his fingernails with a pocket knife.

The sight of his knife made my hands twitch.

My hand slipped into my pocket where I felt my own knife. The familiar cold steel, the scratches and enscription. I ran my thumb over the blade, feeling its nearly-dull edge slice into the very top layer of skin.

He raised his eyes to mine, flicking the dirt from his knife and wiping his fingernails on his jacket.

I grinned and whipped the knife from my pocket, taking a defensive stance as if he were about to attack me. I rocked back and forth on the balls of my feet, shifting my weight eagarly.

He stared at me for a moment, then his mouth curled into a smile. He flipped the knife in the air and caught it, holding it tightly in his fist. He bent his knees and slid his foot forward, testing me.

I dropped into an attacking stance, and suddenly lunged at him. He dodged me easily and pressed his hand into my back, pushing me further away from him.

The warmth of his hand caused my muscles to constrict with desire.

I turned to him with wild eyes just in time to see him swinging at me with his blade. I ducked quickly and sliced at his legs, but he hopped back.

We stepped back and assessed one another. He was panting for breath, grinning, sweating. His face glowing with excitement.

I smiled slyly as I realized how much he was enjoying this, for I wasn't even out of breath yet. The adrenaline must be lighting him on fire, I guessed. My heart skipped a beat at the thought.

I wanted to see his skin. I wanted to see his chest. I wanted to run my fingers down his abdomin.

I raised my hand.

"Hold on, I'm sweating like a mad-man," I lied convincingly.

Ranuccio relaxed, his hands dropping to his sides. He tilted his head slightly to the side, questioningly.

I took off my shirt, pulling it over my head and slipping out my arms in one quick motion. I tossed it over my shoulder and heard it land in the floor.

I let out a hefty sigh of relief.

I could see his eyes fall to the scar he had given me in our last knife-fight. Something changed in his eyes, in his expression, though I could not pin-point what it was.

He took a cautious step towards me, transfixed on my scar.

I suddenly flicked up my knife and sliced at his face.

He barely moved his head in time. It may have been my imagination, but I believe I saw bits of his hair drifting down from where I had sliced.

He looked at me with a startled and also pleased expression. He grinned and threw off his jacket and recklessly pulled off his shirt.

Ahh, yes. His bare, bronzey-tan chest, slick with prespiration. His ribs stuck out at each intake of breath. I could almost see his heart hammering away in his chest.

He came at me quite fiercely, but he was, as always, stubbornly reckless and predictable. I side-stepped him and hit him in the shoulder with the hilt of my knife. He stumbled but did not fall, whirling around with a red face.

I smirked, guiltily feeling much like a child on Christmas. All I wanted to do was touch his body. Feel him. Hold him. For now, staring would have to do.

He danced around me, swiping his knife and swinging punches at my face.

I may have been older than him, but I was not a frail old man. I didn't let him touch me.

I danced with him, against him. Like two rats fighting for dominance, our dance was our battle.

...

"You're... You're very good," Ranuccio panted out, grasping onto his side where he must have been feeling a cramp.

"Thank you, so are you," I nodded at him, twirling my knife for a moment before putting it away in my pocket.

"Might I have s-some wa-?"

"Some water?" I interupted.

"Yes, please," he said gratefully. He was sitting in the floor near a table, worn out from our little brawl.

I went to the kitchen and got him a mug of water. He held out his hand and I placed the mug into it.

"Thank you," he said, taking a drink.

I gazed at his lips, the way they sloppily peeled apart to allow the water inside, the greedy way the water ran out from between them...

He handed the mug back to me, and I took it and drank.

Ranuccio watched me with a dazed expression.

I placed the now-empty mug on the table and looked down at him. From where I stood, my shadow loomed over him. I knew he could see, especially this close up, the scab-like scar on the right side of my stomach. I knew he could see it. And I wanted him to.

His eyes flickered uncertainly, then he hung his head in his lap and sighed.

...

I instructed him to strip down to his underwear, my hands shaking slightly as I prepared my canvass and paints.

Ranuccio and Lena looked at each other, I watched them out of the corner of my eye.

Ranuccio shrugged and Lena scowled as he pulled down his trousers. Lena crossed her arms over her chest and looked away with a pinched expression. Ranuccio tossed his clothes onto a chair and ran his fingers through his hair as he stepped over to me expectantly.

My eyes dialated at the sight. My heart fluttered wildly in my chest like a bird in a cage.

Ranuccio... His caulloused feet, his glossy legs, his hard-as-rock thighs... I turned away before I let myself look at his crotch.

I licked my lips as I dipped a paintbrush in a glass of water.

"Go over by the window. Take the staff," I ordered.

I heard him move behind me as he obeyed, hearing the light thunk of the staff as he bumped it against the wall unintentionally.

I looked at him at last. He held the staff like a warrior holding a flag pole.

"You're a sheep herder," I said. "Not a damn fighter."

He blinked at me, shifted his weight, not understanding what to do.

I sighed and went over to him, taking his arms with my hands. I moved him around like a puppet, and he allowed me to mold him like clay.

I positioned him into a proud man gazing along invisable fields of sheep, bending slighty over to take care of a lamb at his feet.

As a finishing touch, I threw a shawl around his shoulders.

I admired the complete and utter compliance he gave. The diligent way he stood standing still as a tree. Such a beautiful person...

Suddenly impulse took ahold of me. I took a gold coin from my vest pocket, held it up to the light so he could see. Ranuccio watched the coin like a dog watches a bone.

I stepped up close to him, and, my eyes shining with delight, pushed the coin down the front of his underwear.

His legs tightened at the awkwardness of my action and the sudden coldness of the coin. His knuckles turned white against the staff. His lips parted dryly as if to protest, but he said nothing. He didn't even move.

I smiled and went back to my canvass, my face warm with bashfulness. I almost felt like singing as I swirled and mixed the colors.

I didn't once look over at Lena.

...


	3. Chapter 3

The room is hot, dark, and crowded.

I lay on my side, wondering, as I cough into a white rag, why so many people are staring at me, weeping. Jerusaleme takes the rag and tears fall from his eyes. I look over to see what's the matter, and I vaugly realize that the rag is red instead of white.

Candles flicker solemnly all around the room.

I try to ask what time it is, but Jersaleme pushes his finger against my lips, urging me not to talk.

His finger is replaced by a spoon, and I open my mouth to receive the warm liquid.

...

I'm being punished, my mind whispers as I retch into a wooden pail. It is because I murdered someone.

But was it not revenge? I wonder. Was I not avenging the life of another, the innocent life of the woman I loved?

Why, I ask myself. Why am I being punished? He admitted to his crime, and therefore paid the price for committing it. It was justice! I don't deserve to suffer this way!

My mind turns to fog as my body heaves once more, rattling my very bones. I lay trembling on the dirt, curled up like an infant beside the pail.

Maybe... Maybe he didn't deserve to be punished, either. Maybe it was wrong of me to pass his sentence.

He said he did it for me, but... I never asked him to, did I?

I push myself into sitting position and lean with my back against the wall. A string of blood and bile hangs from my lips. I raise a shaking hand and wipe it away.

...

My paintings are things of nightmares, riddled with blood and hatred and sorrow. As are my emotions.

But I must paint in order to survive. Without Lena... Without Ranuccio... Painting ceases to be a passion, and becomes an obsession. A necessity.

Paint or die.

My fingers blister against the brushes and my shoulder ache from holding my arms up. My legs tremble and my body grows thin.

Jerusaleme helps me in every way that he can, for he sees me suffering daily, struggling even to get out of bed.

But I must paint, for I have not yet attoned for my sins: I am not ready to die.

He stopped blowing his whistle long ago. Now he is always by my side, never needing to get my attention because he is always waiting right there, watching me with his wide, intellegent eyes.

...

Lena cast a cold shadow over me, refusing to pose for paintings and even refusing to look at me, no matter how many coins I bribed her with.

Ranuccio was cheerful, yet wary around Lena, lest she turn violent against someone. He was more than willing to do anything I asked him to, whether I promised pay or not.

One day, just as a test, I didn't pay him for two days straight, though I worked him quite hard. I had him pose for two seperate paintings, I also had him build a work bench so I would have more room to mix my paints. I also had him to various small chores for me, such as cleaning up a paint spill and folding the costumes.

He did it all dilligently and patiently, without complaint and never once asking about his money.

Behind my back, however, Lena whispered and scolded him, demanding he confront me. I had to slap my hand to my mouth to keep from giggling when I heard his reply: "Piss off!"

At two in the morning on the third day, I crept into his room and placed a bag of coins by his bed while he slept.

Ranuccio was all-smiles that day.

However, tension between Lena and I gathered in the distance like a storm cloud, drawing closer and closer.

...

I took her aside one evening and demanded she look me in the eyes. I asked, rather harshly, what her problem was.

"Do I not feed you, give you a bed?" I cried. "Why do you hold such animosity towards me?" I reached out and took her by the shoulders, firmly, yet gently.

She lowered her eyes. "It's just, I-"

"Look at me!"

She flinched at my words and stared at me, her face hardening as her eyes grew soft. Her eyes told me what her lips could not.

I sighed and let her go.

"You know that I love you, right?" The words flew from my mouth before I could even think them. I faltered, stunned by what I had just said.

As Lena nodded slowly, looking ashamed of herself, I began to doubt myself.

Do I love her? Could it be true?

Yes, Ranuccio is highly attractive, and I desire his body more than any other person I've ever met, but... Love?

Lena, my sweet, innocent Mary. Her sensual body and thin, pink lips. How I loved the feel of her lips againt mine, the desperate, yet restrained, passion that sparked between us.

Perhaps I did love Lena, and Ranuccio was just a thing of lust.

"I'm sorry," Lena broke my train of thought. "I suppose I'm a bit jealous... Ranuccio admires you so much..."

My stomach flipped at his name.

"It was childish of me to act this way," Lena went on. She flipped her hair from her eyes and smiled brightly. "Especially now that I know how you feel about me."

I lifted her chin with my fingers, smiled at her, and kissed her. Lena wrapped her arms around me and held me there.

A few seconds later I pulled her into my bedroom.

...

Things were different between me and Lena after that. She was happy, grateful, even, just to be in my presense.

Ranuccio and Lena both did their best to please me, each of them vying for my affection.

Lena giggled and flirted and danced around, fixing everyone lunches and suppers and breakfasts, washing my clothes and folding them before my eyes, doing all these little things without being asked.

Ranuccio shot worried glances at Lena, realizing what she was doing. He looked at me with desperation and fear, as if he was afraid I would abandon him for her.

I merely smiled at the two of them. Like children, they were.

I took the newspaper Ranuccio brought me and sipped from the coffee mug Lena had provided, while Jerusaleme worked in the background, sweeping floors and straightening paintings that hung on the walls.

I felt like a king.

I crossed my legs and shook open the newspaper, grinning to myself.

It was good to be King.

...

Jerusaleme had always been there for me, as I had been for him. He was like a son to me. I loved him dearly, but not in the same way I loved Lena, or lusted for Ranuccio.

No, he held a special place in my heart that neither Lena nor Ranuccio could replace.

Such a tender-hearted soul he had. Such compassion towards me and the ones I cared about.

I watched him dust cobwebs from the windows and knew he was doing that so I would have more light to paint with.

Such a sweet child.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.

...


	4. Chapter 4

I spend restless nights at the bar, muttering my woes to the bartender as I slam shots of whiskey.

I don't take Jerusaleme with me when I go to the bar. I don't want him to see me like this.

I lay my face down on the table, my head burning as if on fire.

The bartender tells me I should go home, try to get some rest. I tell him I can't, that the nightmares have taken over my dreams.

I raise my head as I hear a familiar voice. I look over my shoulder to see Ranuccio sitting at a table behind me, playing cards and smoking like when I first saw him.

I grin sheepishly and wave, but he doesn't acknowledge me.

The bartender refills my glass. My hand trembles as I tip it into my mouth.

...

The days slip by almost unnoticed. A simple passing of shadows from one room to the next. Warmth and light, fading in and out as the sun makes its journey. Such unimportance the days held.

What good is a day, when it is the same as the day before?

I paint, using sullen models with sour expressions, conveying something both terrifying and utterly hopeless.

My paintings come to life with things unseen in person: Blood shoots from the neck of a man as he is decapitated, a look of horror on his anguished face.

I glance at the models, seeing merely three people, one bending over while the other two lay hands on him.

Dark smatterings of black reveals the loss of hope, the loss of life.

My stomach knots at the sight.

As I gently sweep my brush along the suffering man's eyes, causing them to stand out with their pain, my eye suddenly itches. I rub it with the back of my hand, and wipe the warm wetness on my pants.

...

Ranuccio brought me supper one evening while I was in bed. Wine and cheese. A small roast chicken.

I could tell by the nervous look in his eyes that he prepared it himself.

I put down the book I was reading and turned to him with a smile, wearing nothing but my underwear.

"What, no grapes?" I asked jokingly as he put my food on the table.

He looked up, startled. "I can get you some, if you'd like." He offered, taking a small step backwards.

I waved at him to stay, and he stood still.

Taking the glass of wine, I winked at him, then took a drink.

He relaxed and sat down on the bed beside me, reaching forward and pulling the table closer to us.

I put down the glass and reached for the chicken, but Ranuccio quickly sat up and grabbed the fork and knife. He began carving the chicken as best as he could, though it probably would have looked better if he had handed it to a dog first.

I sat back and watched him quietly. His strong hands looked so delicate and uncertain as they sliced into the meat.

When it was carved to his satisfaction, he stabbed the fork into a piece and held it up. Even in the dusky haze of the room, I could still see the steam rising from the chicken.

He scooted closer to me, our knees nearly touching. He looked at me with eyes so fierce I could not bear to look away. He offered the fork to me, letting it hover inches from my lips.

I gazed into his stoney gray eyes before parting my lips. He stuck the fork in my mouth, careful not to bang into my teeth or stab my tongue. I closed my mouth around the fork, and he pulled it out, grinning.

I chewed and swallowed. The chicken was a bit dry, and rather bland, but I did not tell him any of this. What would have been the point?

His eyes drifted down my bare chest to my scar, and I saw his jaw clinch together. He quickly speared another piece of chicken and held it out to me, and I bit it off the fork and ate it.

I coughed once, the dryness of the chicken tickling my throat.

He snatched the wine off the table and held it to my lips.

I opened my mouth and he very gently tilted the wine inside, biting his lip in concentration.

His expression was more than I could stand. I snorted into the glass and pushed him away, laughing and coughing at the same time.

He held the glass close to his chest as if protecting it, blinking and staring at me in confusion.

"Are you al-"

I interupted him by taking the wine and slinging it in his face.

He squeezed his eyes shut and wiped them with his arm. He blinked at me in shocked silence, licking his lips as the wine dripped down from his hair.

I took a cloth napkin from the table and gently dabbed his face. He grabbed me by the wrist and held me there, his eyes blazing.

I stared at him, slightly afraid, knowing what he was capable of.

He took his other hand and cupped his fingers around my chin, then he leaned over and kissed me. His eyes squeezed shut and his forehead wrinkled together as he pressed even closer to me.

Heat erupted from my body in a violent surge of passion. His lips parted and his tongue slipped out, forcing apart my own lips. His hand left my wrist and wrapped around my head, his fingers digging into my hair.

Our mouths moved as one, our tongues dancing together. The breath that panted from his nostrils was hot and moist.

I opened my eyes, not realizing I had shut them, and marvelled at his beauty. He suddenly opened his eyes and pulled our lips apart, and, placing his hand on my chest, he coaxed me to lay on my back. He straddled me, his body trembling, and pulled off his shirt.

I stared up at him, the ape-like grin on his face sending ripples down my spine.

His chest sparkled with sweat, his muscles stood out in distinct lines. He bend down and placed his hands on either side of my shoulders.

His face melted into a seriousness so genuine he almost looked sad. His eyes grew wet and dark, and he closed them and placed his warm lips against my chest.

His lips caressed and tickled my chest and moved slowly down to my stomach. My eye twitched with uncertainty as his tongue wormed its way into my belly button. I squirmed a little, so he stopped.

Carefully, gently, with the compassion of a mother kissing her sick child, his lips pressed sweetly against my scar, the one he himself had given me. A hot tear dropped from his eyes and onto my belly.

I raised my hand and ran my fingers through his hair.

He looked at me, his face full of sorrow and regret.

I gave him a small, understanding smile. That was enough. His face flew down against mine, and his lips found my own. His body arched, then settled down on top of me, grinding our pelvic bones together as he rocked his hips.

My chest tightened and I let out a moan of delight.

Ranuccio giggled like a little girl, and licked tenderly around my earlobe.

I kicked out my leg, knocking the wine glass from the bed. It shattered on the floor. Then I heard footsteps. Quickly, I threw Ranuccio sideways off of me. He thudded into the floor and his elbow crashed into the table.

He cursed the Holy Lord and sat up, holding his arm.

Jerusaleme appeared seconds later, waving his arms and blowing his whistle.

I held up my hand to calm him down.

"It's all right, Jerusaleme," I said lightly. "Ranuccio just tripped over a pebble or something."

Ranuccio stood up slowly, his face striken with anger. But he nodded at Jerusaleme. "Yeah.." He looked at the broken wine glass and the stained-red sheets. His eyes flickered at mine, full of delight. He looked back at Jerusaleme. "I'll clean it up." He promised solemnly.

Jerusaleme eyed me carefully. How silly the two of us must have looked to him. Both of us shirtless, him drenched with wine, both of us sweaty and out of breath. I grinned and he made a face.

After taking the sheets from my bed and providing me with clean ones, Jerusaleme left us alone.

I sighed heavily and laid down on the bed. Ranuccio scuffed his feet against the dirt floor. He scratched his forehead and glanced out the window.

"It's late I... I should let you rest," he muttered shyly.

Before I could say anything, he hurried out of the room and was gone.

...


	5. Chapter 5

At night... All things are black and white. The trees, the grass, the people. Each of them formed from shades of gray.

Even the blood which drips from my arm looks black in the wavering light of the moon.

The docter tells me it will get rid of infections, draining my blood this way.

I watch it fall from inside of me and plop into a bowl on the ground. I am too dizzy to care. I could die right now and not even care.

My eyes roll back in my head right as Jerusaleme kisses my hand.

...

To keep her spirits up, I bought Lena gifts of clothes and jewelry. My paintings were selling well, so I could easily afford it. It made her happy, and her smiles made me happy.

My heart swelled whenever she looked at me, and I knew I was in love.

Ranuccio became almost shy around me, blushing and turning away if I happened to glance over at him. He behaved quite normally around Lena and Jerusaleme, aside from smiling hugely at them as if he held a grand secret.

Each time he looked my way, even by accident, seeing the sharp curve of his chin, the thin, hard line of his lips, knowing how tender and delicate he could be, sent shivers down my spine and warmth into my cock.

...

There was an art show at a mansion. My paintings graced walls and stands all along the foyer and living room. The house was full of people. Rich, selfish, young, and old.

I watched with a forcedly calm expression as my paintings, my gorgeous works of art, were sold to such people as short, fat men with bald, greasy heads and stubby fingers, with their tall, slender peacock wives hanging from their elbows.

A local writer and his horse-like maiden approached me with their snobbish expressions and disinterested voices. I kissed her hand as formality required but forgot what they said as soon as they finished saying it.

Lena, dressed in the finest of gowns, looked like a queen. Her silken red hair pulled back with strings of pearls, which also hung from her ears.

Presents from me. She bore them well.

Men stood in line to kiss her hand, drooling over their own fantasies. She indulged them, allowing one lecher in particular to remove her shoes and kiss her feet.

Jerusaleme stood quietly nearby, along with a few models of mine that had taken quite a liking to me. They all seemed awkward and out of place, ducking their heads and shifting their feet nervously whenever someone passed them by.

I watched Lena gracefully depart into another room, followed by an array of men. I noticed that among Jerusaleme and the others, Ranuccio was nowhere to be found.

I excused myself by nodding and smiling at a couple who had been droning on with irrelevant small-talk for nearly ten minutes, and left the room.

I went down eerily quiet, dark hallways. The wavering movement of shadows behind candle-lit lanterns. The soft whisper of tip-toes against the wood and marble floors. These things raised shivers down my spine, but I continued on, fearful in the back of my mind of getting lost in such a grand house. My ears strained for his voice, and at last I heard it. I followed his hushed laughter, frowning when I heard that of a woman.

He exploited himself with a stranger, seducing her from behind, wrapping his arms around her chest and feeling her breasts. He licked at her neck and ears, tickled her diamond earrings with his tongue. She squeaked with the wicked delight of an adulterous fend, resisting him only enough so that he would continue to with wrestle her.

I watched with a strange sensation pooling into my stomach as he carefully sucked the earrings from her ears without her even noticing. A petty theif for jewels as well as whoredom.

I turned away.

...

Later I found him trying to lift a string of pearls from a table, while he thought no one was around.

I took my knife from my pocket, and quietly pushed a ring down the blade. A ring I myself had stolen just a few minutes before.

As he raised the necklace to his face, his eyes glowing with excitement, I came up behind him and grabbed him, slinging my arm around his neck and pressing my knife to his throat. He dropped the necklace and held still. I could feel his heart jerking around in his chest with shock.

"It takes a theif to catch a theif," I told him calmly, a smile playing about my voice.

He relaxed only slightly when he realized who I was. I grinned.

"Give me your hand," I ordered. "C'mon," I added when he hesitated.

He raised his right hand near the blade, and I took hold of his his ring finger and pulled it out a bit. Then I slid the ring off my blade and gently slipped it onto his finger.

"Fraternity and a day," I said. *****

He exhailed and smiled, tilting his head to look at me. I smiled back, then, quite suddenly, he turned his neck even more and kissed me.

I dropped my knife to the ground as he twisted his body around to face me. He held my face in his hands and very softly kissed my lips, again and again, until I could take it no more and mashed my own against his. His fingers ran through my hair and clawed desperately at my back.

He set my body ablaze with desire as his tongue ran along mine, but I had to resist. I pulled away from him, took my knife up from the floor, and made up a truthful excuse about the party being in my honor. He was still standing there, gulping for air and shivering, as I went back to the gallery.

...

As I stare up at the dusty ceiling, the rafters full of old cobwebs and lost hope, my mind drifts to a place that is far from this world.

My body jerks and my lungs twist inside of me. I choke on the stale air.

Jerusaleme and his mother try to comfort me, water me, save me. I hardly even know they are there. Kneeling beside my bed as if I am dying. But perhaps I am.

Blood leaps from my pale lips and sparkles in the air before dotting all along my face. Jerusaleme, his black eyes squinted nearly shut, with tears running down his face, he brushes the hair from my eyes and cleans off my face with a towel. His mother crosses herself.

I gasp for air, feeling tightness in my chest and a sort of vibration in my heart.

I no longer care if these are my final breaths. If I die, here in this bed like an old man, I will not mind. At least, along with me, my memories will die.

...

Lena told me, with a glowing soul and shining eyes, that she was pregnant. My Mary Magdalene... How would it be to paint a pregnant Mary? My mind lit up with ideas.

But whose was the child?

I was curious to find out, for I knew for a fact that Ranuccio had slept with her before. And I knew I had as well.

I went to Ranuccio a couple days later. He was swinging punches at a hanging bag from the ceiling. He was angry.

She had been gone for quite some time. Never really said where she was going. She did hire some men to act as her bodyguards, though, for she felt like, as I grew more famous, she did as well, and therefore needed protection.

I told him she was with child. He sarcastically spat back that that was fucking marvellous.

"It's gonna cost you," he warned, as if he already knew the child was mine.

Lena came into the room, and Ranuccio's whole mannerism changed. He stepped towards Lena as one might step towards an angel of God.

"You're back," he said gratefully.

Her bodyguards glared at him, so he stayed away.

"Not back, just visiting," Lena retorted.

I watched his face fall into desperation.

"Whose child is it?" He asked doubtfully.

"Mine!" Lena replied, smiling as if he had asked a silly question.

She left the room soon after she promised riches and wealth to her future baby, and denouncing both me and Ranuccio. She basically said she no longer needed us, and that she was capable to live on her own and raise a child.

Ranuccio hung his head, his face wrought with emotions.

So Lena was moving on. I thought perhaps I could convince her to stay, for I truely did love her. But... If she did still choose to go, I would have no choice but to let her.

I went to Ranuccio and reached out to touch him on the shoulder, but he turned away.

A few moments later, he hurried out of the room after her.

...

******* Quote based off the movie, but it may not be what he actually said during the movie.**


	6. Chapter 6

They had gone for a walk, discussing the past they shared together and the future they would spend apart. Old love and dying friendships.

Lena dismissed her bodyguards so that she and Ranuccio could speak in private.

They took a walk down to the harbor. They went down to the dock and stood looking out at the waters. Time seemed to stand still as they bathed in their affections.

Then, out of nowhere Scipione, a rich, selfish man who adored Lena's sensuality, ran into Lena and shoved her over the dock's railing. She cracked her head against the dock before crashing lifelessly into the waters.

Ranuccio screamed and dove in to save her, but she had broken her neck in the fall. Lena was dead.

When he got her out of the water, Scipione had disappeared.

So was the story.

I didn't know what to think. So numb were my emotions that I had nothing to say.

Jerusaleme sobbed quietly as he washed her hands and feet.

I took a comb and carefully cleaned the gobs of mud and debris from her hair.

Ranuccio watched us with striken, black eyes. He twisted his fingers together again and again, rubbing his hands and his face. He was covered in dirt and grime. His hair still dripped with the thick, dirty water. He was trembling, but I hardly noticed.

Lena... My beautiful Mary. Christ's own mother. Dead. My mind still refused to process the thought, even as I stared down into her glossy, pale blue eyes. I wanted to kiss her lips, taste her warmth and sweetness, but I knew she'd be cold as ice and taste like dirt.

...

The guards seized Ranuccio and began dragging him away.

"Micheli!" Ranuccio cried.

Suddenly Francis came in the room, lead by Jerusaleme. I called out his name, but he raised his hand to silence me. The guards stopped and held Ranuccio still, watching Francis respectfully.

Francis kissed a wooden crucifix, hung it around his neck, then bent over Lena's body. Very gently, he closed her eyelids, and Jerusaleme, who held a lantern over her, began to weep.

Francis knelt, and I knelt with with. The guards pulled Ranuccio down as they followed suit.

Francis clasped his hands together and quoted a passage from scripture.

I turned my head to look at Ranuccio, who shifted uncomfortably and shouted as soon as Francis was done speaking: "I'm innocent!"

"I ain't killed her! I never touched her, never!" He went on, struggling against the guards who held his arms behind his back. "She was killed by Scipione Borghese!"

Something snapped inside of me, and I went at the guards and tried to pull them away from Ranuccio, whose eyes sparkled at me with adoration.

"Take your hands off him, he's innocent!" I growled hatefully.

"Micheli!" Francis interupted.

I hesitated, then stepped away.

Ranuccio gave me one last, sorrowful look, before the guards took him away.

I hung my head and sighed.

"He will be executed for this," Francis said after a moment of silence.

"What if it really was Borghese?" I asked.

"You know that man could buy his way out of anything, murderer or not." Francis scoffed.

I shook my head in disbelief. "I for one am not going to let him die."

I raised my head to see Jerusaleme staring at me. He nodded shortly, as if to say he would stick with me til the end. I tried to smile, but my heart was not in it, so I grimanced instead.

Francis' eyes lingered upon me long after me and Jerusaleme left the room.

...

In my mind, the things I have done pass before me like clouds blowing across the sky.

I see my hands, reaching out, painting with golds and whites and reds. Crafting the perfection of Mary Magdalene, who lay sleeping on a cot. Men, women, and children loom over and around her, mourning and grieving. Praying over Lena's lifeless shell of a body.

I see her there as if I am painting her once more, her delicate, pale face. Her smooth, pink lips. I go to her on the table and gently squeeze her hand, as if she really is sleeping, and a simple squeeze will wake her. But no. I am greeted not by warmth and pulse, but by coldness and stiffness.

I turn back to my canvass and see my painting of John the Baptist, almost complete, but not quite. I turn back around to see Ranuccio pushing another gold coin into his mouth, moving them around with his tongue.

"Be still," I order.

He flicks his eyes at me apologetically, then stands still. Lena looks up from the corner where she knits a scarf. Her eyes search Ranuccio's face before looking back down.

I dip my paintbrush in the black paint, only to realize it is not a paintbrush I am holding, but my knife.

My shirt drips with blood, and I raise it up to see my scar has opened up as if I had just been wounded.

Ranuccio grins down at me, holding his blood-stained knife. I rub my hand across my bleeding gash, then I lift my hand and smear it down Ranuccio's face.

"Blood brothers," I tell him fiercely.

He steps up to me and kisses me softly on the lips.

I open my eyes to see Jerusaleme standing over me, pressing a bowl to my lips. I gaze up at him, dazed, before parting my lips and drinking the warm, flavorless soup.

...

I sold myself to the very man Ranuccio said murdered Lena, who in turn sold me to the Pope.

I wanted him back. Ranuccio was innocent.

Perhaps Scipione Borghese did kill Lena, and perhaps he didn't. None of that mattered. Scipione was a coward and a lech if it truely was him who murdered her.

He deserved to suffer, but not yet. First... I had to win back my John.

I made for the Pope one of my finest, and also most rushed works of art yet. But he was also a self-centered, conceited bastard, and he knew nothing of the beauty and the craftmenship of art.

He accepted it and promised Ranuccio be returned to me, as long as I promised to make him go to church every week.

I kissed His Holiness and thanked him humbly and took my leave.

...

When all you love is yourself, your love dies when you do.

When you love others, your love lives in them, and their love lives in you, and that loves gets passed on to your children and your children's children, so on and forever. Never dying, and never truely gone.

I see my child, my sweet, innocent child, holding blankets and food and drinks and candles. Holding something different each time I blink.

My body is full of mist and steam, and I float along the shores of death, drifting in and out with the ebb and flow of the tide.

Somehow the current catches me and drags me into the sea. I scrap along the rocks and sand invades my ears. My mouth is clogged with seaweed and my eyes burn shut with salt water. My arms and legs hold me down, and I cannot reach the surface.

The sun glitters from above, mocking me with its constant cheerfulness. The depths of the waters make me cold. I shiver and moan as my lungs fill with icy water.

My nose is pinched and I open my eyes. I feel something on my tongue and so I swallow.

Jerusaleme smiles and offers me another pill. I turn my head away, but he pulls me back and forces the pill between my lips.

...


	7. Chapter 7

The look in his eyes is what haunts me even as I lay dying. The terror. The confusion. The sheer striken look of betrayal. Yet... Beneath all that, love still lingered.

I will never forget his face. Not when I have so little else to hold on to.

...

I waited for him in a courtyard. The prison guards said they would release him out to me soon.

I was frazzled and nervous.

Will he know it was me who delivered him from almost certain execution? But of course he would know. Who else knew he was taken away besides the mute boy, Jerusaleme?

I shook my head and combed my hair with my fingers. I scrubbed my teeth with the sleeve of my shirt. I dusted my clothes off and picked debris from my beard and mustache.

Why am I so anxious? I asked myself, pacing the grounds and pulling at loose threads on my jacket.

My heart froze and my lungs went flat as I heard his footsteps. Quickly stood as casually as I could, leaning up against a wall. He walked in through a stone doorway, hands slung easily in the pockets of his leather jacket.

His face was lit with smiles. I grinned at him, and he began to chuckle happily, walking back and forth across the floor.

"You're out!" I punched the air lightly for emphasis.

He laughed and pointed at me. "You pulled it off!" He laughed some more. "Fucking brilliant!"

My smile faded as uncertainty struck a match in my heart.

"We tricked the bastards!" He chortled, jabbing a finger back the way he'd came. He couldn't seem to stop giggling.

I shifted my weight and my hands found their way into my pockets. "What do you mean?" I asked, my smile glued to my face. "Tricked them?"

He stared at me for a second. "Micheli, are you blind?" He asked cheerfully. When I didn't answer, his face dropped into seriousness. "I did it for you."

What did he say? My mind screamed with rage. He did it?_ It? _He killed Lena? My eyes grew dark with anger, and Ranuccio stepped towards me. I straightened up into a defensive pose.

"For love," he added gently, his voice tinged with sadness.

"For what?" I snarled, barely able to control my temper.

"Love!" He cried, stepping closer.

"You murdered her?" I asked wickedly.

"For you!" He insisted. "For us." He gazed at me with a pleading expression, as if simply by begging, I would accept his heinous crime and become his lover.

"You murdered her." At last his words hit me, and my hand grasped around the hilt of my knife. I swished it out and pressed the blade to the side of Ranuccio's throat.

We stared at each other. He made no move to stop me, as if he believed I wouldn't do it, or perhaps be believed he deserved it.

I tore the knife down across his throat.

He gasped as the blood shot from his throat, splattering hotly against my cheek. He held his neck for a second before reaching towards me and pressing his hand against my face. His hand slipped down suddenly and he fell forward. Instinctively, I caught him, and his arms wound around my back, his fingers digging into the fabric of my jacket.

His tortured, jerking coughs as his lungs filled with blood. His fingers trembling against my back. The life draining out of him, staining my clothes and the ground.

I wondered, as I held him, if I had made a mistake. He was going to die. There was no saving him. Who would I have left to love? Who was left to love me?

I stood there uncertainly, holding him in my arms, his hot blood soaking into the collar of my shirt, until his legs could no longer hold him and he slipped lifelessly from my grasp and collapsed to the ground.

...

I stare up into the eyes of my only child, and Jerusaleme stares back.

I smile at him, then I blush, embarressed, as I feel drool running down my chin.

Quickly he wipes my face with a rag. I keep telling myself it was drool even after I see the blood staining the rag.

My chest grows tight, and I lean back and close my eyes. My heart burns as if on fire. My hand feels so weak, and I feel so very old as I ball my hand into a fist over my heart. I dig my knuckles into the skin, and my lungs let out a strange weezing sound. I cough violently and open my eyes.

Jerusaleme blows his whistle.

The noise deafens me. I see him turn away, I see his cheeks puff up with air and continue to blow, but I no longer hear it.

There is a softness in the air, pulling me down, pressing down on my body, forcing me through the bed.

The light begins to fade from the room, being replaced with mist and smoke.

Jerusaleme grows smaller and smaller as I sink further and further away. I consider reaching out towards him, but I change my mind.

I try to breathe, but my lungs refuse to listen. My head spins like a leaf in the wind. My chest vibrates and aches with dullness.

I feel like an object. I am not on the bed, I am the bed. Just something for people to look at and lay all over. Darkness swims across my eyes and stays put.

A thousand hands squeeze all over my body, lifting me, jerking me. I flail lifelessly like a puppet, feeling, seeing, and hearing nothing.

My body falls away from me, and I float upwards. I look down at the bed where my body still lays. Jerusaleme shakes me, his mouth parted in a silent scream. I watch him quietly before turning away.

I join my artwork and become just a vague memory.


End file.
